PS 

3539 

U24 

T5 

1919 

MAIN 


UC-NRLF 


THERE  AND  HERE 


By 
ALLEN  TUCKER 


THERE    AND    HERE 


THERE  AND  HERE 


BY 

ALLEN  TUCKER 


NEW    YORK 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright.  1919,  by 
ALLEN  TUCKER 


The  author  wishes  to  extend  his  thanks  for  per 
mission  to  reprint  certain  verses  to  the  Editors  of 
Scribners  Magazine,  Vanity  Fair,  The  Dial,  The 
Churchman  and  The  New  York  Times. 


47004J 


CONTENTS 

FAOB 

ADAMS  MEMORIAL,  THE .42 

ADVICE 39 

AGAIN 47 

AWAKE 20 

BACK 40 

"BARRICADES  MYSTERIEUSES",  LES 44 

BRANCH,  A 23 

BUFFALOES,  THE 16 

CANDLES 13 

CHEMIN  DES  DAMES          10 

CHRISTMAS  RAID,  THE 12 

CRUCIFIX,  A 4 

END  OF  APRIL,  THE 5 

FIFES 29 

FLAGS 3 

GlVE   ME   ONCE   MORE 33 

GUNS 32 

JULY  NIGHT,  A 28 

LA  ARGENTINA 3° 

LARKSPUR 49 

"LES  FLEURS  DU  MAL" 26 

LIFE  .                       48 


LIFE  is  A  STRIVING PA^j 

MAGICIAN,  A 22 

MARCH  GALE,  A xg 

NARCISSUS  ON  THE  TABLE 46 

NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH 35 

No.  721.    DEPARTMENT  OF  GOTHIC  ART    ....  50 

ON  A  LINE  OF  SAPPHO 15 

PLAYTHING,  A 41 

POILU  AND  THE  POLITICIAN,  THE 43 

PROCESSION  OF  THE  DEAD,  THE 36 

RETURN,  THE 38 

REVENANTES,  LES 19 

SECOND  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 24 

SEPTEMBER 9 

SHADOW,  A 34 

SEVENTY-SEVENTH  DIVISION,  THE 52 

"THERE  is  NO  PEACE" 8 

VERDUN       6 

WESTWARD 14 


THERE    AND    HERE 


FLAGS 

BATTLEFIELD    OF    THE    MARNE,   THE    YEAR   AFTER 

Flags  in  the  field, 

Flags,  flags  and  flags, 

Blowing  straight  out  in  the  bright  wind, 

Blowing  straight  out  over  the  green  graves, 

Blowing  straight  out  by  the  white  crosses. 

The  fields  rest; 

The  sheep  graze; 

The  birds  fly  yellow  into  the  level  sun; 

And  the  flags,  the  flags  blow  straight  out, 

Blue,  white  and  red, 

Straight  to  the  East, 

Straight  against  the  foe, 

Gay,  free  and  fierce, 

With  the  terrible  defiance  of  the  dead. 


A  CRUCIFIX 

BATTLEFIELD    OF    THE   MARNE 

Beauty  was  everywhere, 

The  moon  was  round  through  it, 

The  night  enveloped  it, 

The  trees  waved  silently  into  it, 

The  air  was  thick  with  it, 

The  ground  was  pale  in  it, 

The  new  graves  were  covered  by  it. 

And  there  on  the  cross 

Hung  the  Son  of  God. 

And  I  asked,  "Why, 

Why,  O  God,  must  suffering 

And  sin  and  anguish  be  in  the  world?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

But  there  on  the  cross 

Hung  the  Son  of  God, 

And  Beauty  was  everywhere. 


THE  END  OF  APRIL 

When  on  a  blue,  pale  night  in  coming  spring, 

The  little  leaves  are  breathing  to  the  stars, 

The  crescent  moon  with  burning  tips  hangs  in  the 

tender  sky, 

The  world  enveloped  by  enchantment 
Seems  dipped  in  beauty. 

I  see  the  wonder  and  amazing  mystery  of  it  all, 
Then  suddenly  I  feel  the  terror, 
And  wish  that  I  could  die. 


VERDUN 

France  indomitable, 

Holding,  holding, 

Holding  the  Pass  to  Beauty 

Against  the  wolves  of  the  world. 

France  magnificent, 
Wounded,  wounded, 
Lighting  with  her  flaming  spirit 
A  beacon  for  the  nations. 

The  wolves, 
The  hungry  wolves, 
With  jaws  adrip, 
Seeking  to  destroy, 
Come  on. 

And  France, 
Fighting  France, 
Kills  and  kills. 

But  tney  come  and  come, 

For  it  is  a  nation  of  wolves, 

A  whole  people, 

Bent  on  the  destruction  of  Beauty, 

On  the  enslavement  of  the  world. 

But  France,  imperishable, 

Holds. 

And  the  wolves  beaten  backward, 
Know  that  they  cannot  pass, 
6 


Know  in   their  darkened   hearts, 

That  France, 

Sweet  France, 

Has,  with  the  terrible  strength  of  her  steadfast  soul, 

Saved  Beauty, 

Saved  Beauty  for  the  world. 


"THERE  IS  NO  PEACE" 

A  June  morning  in  Connecticut, 

The  summer  wind  is  blowing  through  the  green, 

The  gentle  green  of  waving  maple  leaves, 

The  garden  path  is  full  of  peonies, 

And  above  the  sky  is  blue. 

Into  my  sense  why  should  there  come  the  smell 
Of  wounded  soldiers,  crowded  in  a  train? 
Among  the  moving  leaves  why  should  I  see 
The  worn,  inquiring  eyes  of  dying  men? 
For  above  the  sky  is  blue. 


SEPTEMBER 

I  wonder  why,  on  a  splendid  day, 
When  a  wind  has  swept  the  world, 
While  the  shadows  fly  across  the  hills, 
Like  great  blue  flags  unfurled. 

I  wonder  why,  when  the  hills  stand  up 
Clean  and  strong  and  clear, 
As  if  just  fresh  from  the  mint  of  God, 
That  death  should  seem  so  near. 


CHEMIN  DES  DAMES 

Two  blackened,  swollen  things  that  once  were  men, 

Dressed  in  the  clothing  of  the  Prussian  Guard, 

With   dreadful  heads  awry  under  their  iron  pots, 

And  hands  still  clutching  at  the  empty  air, 

Lie  rotting  in  a  hole, 

A  muddy  hole  made  by  a  giant  shell. 

While  down  the  road  a  little  way 

Passes  a  nun, 

Her  face  illumined  by  the  inwara  smile 

That  comes  of  perfect  peace, 

Carrying  in  her  two  hands  some  dull  pink  flowers, 

A  pot  of  mauve  chrysanthemums. 

The  paper  clean  in  which  the  pot  is  wrapped, 

Making  upon  her  flat  black  dress 

A  triangle  of  palest  white, 

Shining  through  the  growing  dusk. 


10 


LIFE    IS  A  STRIVING 

Life  is  a  striving,  struggling  splendour, 

Life  is  a  bitter,  passionate  refrain, 

Life  is  a  sacrifice  and  worship, 

Life  is  the  thing  called  happiness  and  pain. 

Life  is  a  rushing,  star-lit  terror, 
Life  is  a  hoping  on  with  every  breath, 
Life  when  it  reaches  its  completest  glory 
Men  name  Death. 


II 


THE  CHRISTMAS  RAID 

LONDON 

The  night  is  cold, 

The  curving  moon  hangs  low, 

She  rocks  her  babe, 

And  sings  the  song  of  Peace, 

Of  Peace  on  earth, 

For  it  is  Christmastide. 

A  whistle  sounds, 
Another  down  the  street, 
A  cannon  fires, 
Again,  again, 
Faster,  faster, 
Above  a  war-plane  throbs, 
Louder,  louder, 
Nearer,  nearer, 

Sudden,  the  house  leaps  back, 
A  great  noise  splits  the  world, 
A  blinding  light, 

The  affrighted  house — shakes — stands. 
Then  all  is  still, 
And  very  dark. 
The  babe  lies  dead, 

Killed  even  in  the  encircling  mother's  arms. 
While  up  above, 
Between  the  glistening  stars, 
The  angels  sing, 
Sing  on  in  spite  of  war, 
Peace,  peace  on  earth, 
To  men  of  gentle  will. 
12 


CANDLES 

Tall  they  stand,  the  candles, 

Tall  and  thin  and  very  white, 

Each  one  with  its  quiet  flame, 

Small,  bright  and  very  sharp, 

In  the  enormous  gloom, 

The  enclosed  infinity  of  Notre  Dame. 

The  candles  burn, 

Burn  to  God,  for  the  repose  of  the  souls 

Of  the  splendid  dead. 

About  the  altar, 

The  altar  where  rests  the  spirit  of  God, 

Are  the  flags; 

The  battle  flags, 
Red,  white  and  blue, 
Orange,  green  or  deepest  black, 
Crosses,  stripes  or  shining  stars, 
Flags  and  symbols  of  us  all. 

There  are  the  flags, 

The  terrible  flags, 

Hanging  so  still,  so  very  still, 

In  the  enveloped  space 

Of  the  high,  uplifted  nave. 

Steadily  burn  the  candles, 
Slowly,  calmly,  brightly  burn, 
Flaming  upward  toward  God, 
Asking  for  peace  for  the  souls 
Of  the  warrior  dead, 

Who  gave  their  lives  that  love  might  always  live. 

13 


WESTWARD 

High  are  the  white  clouds, 

High  piled  up  are  the  aqueous  hills, 

Into  the  clear  sky, 

Into  the  clean  sky, 

Into  the  blue,  blue  sky  of  home. 


ON  A  LINE  OF  SAPPHO 

My  soul  is  shaken, 
Torn  apart  by  Eros, 
Eros  the  terrible, 
Smites  me  to  my  knees, 
Even  as  the  north  wind, 
Roaring  on  the  mountain, 
Falls  upon  and  smashes 
The  great  oak  trees. 


THE  36;TH  INFANTRY 


"THE  BUFFALOES" 


The  town  is  white, 

The  snow  is  softly  falling, 

Down  the  street,  between  the  waiting  crowds,  they 

come, 

The  Buffaloes, 
The  Black  Regiment. 
The  band  ahead, 
Thumping,  crashing, 
Booming,  smashing, 

As  "Onward,  Christian  Soldiers"  fills  the  air. 
Black  are  the  lines, 
All  splendid  black, 
Beneath  the  sharp  bayonets, 
Under  the  high  waving  flags; 
A  long  way  they  have  marched, 
Down  the  long  years  they  have  come, 
Through  suffering  and  despair, 
From  Africa  to  Manhattan, 
From  slavery  to  freedom, 
Men — citizens  at  last, 
No  masters,  no  protectors, 
Owning  themselves, 
Saving  themselves, 
Marching,  marching, 
Rank  on  rank, 
Black,  all  black, 
Marching,  marching, 
Over  the  soft-lying  snow, 

16 


Marching,  marching, 

Black,  all  black, 

Amidst  the  pale  falling  snow. 

Africa  here! 

Embattled, 

Free! 

Now  ready  to  fight  for  us, 

Now  ready  to  fight  with  us, 

Ready  to  fight  for  themselves, 

Ready  to  fight, 

Ready  to  die, 

For  Freedom. 


A  MARCH  GALE 

A  great  wind  tears  the  popiar  trees, 
With  a  sound  like  strident  harps; 
The  trees  bending,  swaying,  soaring, 
Driven  by  pain  and  dreadful  fear. 
The  wind  roaring,  raging,  crashing, 
With  a  noise  like  moving  fire. 
The  poplars,   beautiful  in  the  evening  light, 
The  little  branches  licking  out  like  running  flame, 
Filled  with  the  glory  of  the  streaming  sun, 
Bright  with  the  wonder  of  the  world. 
The  wind  shrieking,  shouting,  screaming, 
Like  a  living  thing  gone  mad; 
While  in  my  heart,  understanding; 
The  wild  world  at  last  in  tune  with  my  warring, 
darkened  soul. 


18 


LES  REVENANTES 

Ghostlike,  tenuous, 

In  the  moonlight, 

Delicate  are  the  birch  trees, 

So  pale  in  the  April  night; 

Gleaming  white, 

Shining  white, 

Intensely  white, 

Rising  against  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Lifting  into  the  waiting  sky; 

Tall  in  the  moonlight, 

Fine  in  the  moonlight, 

Exquisite  in  the  moonlight; 

Seeming  like  a  pure  rebirth, 

As  if  they  were  the  lovely  souls, 

Come  back  again  to  earth, 

Of  the  long  lost  "neiges  d'antan.' 


AWAKE 

Awake  in  the  black  night;    dark. 

Darkness  everywhere, 

Engulfing  the  world, 

Invading  and  filling  even  the  little  room, 

Surrounding  the  bed, 

Darkness  that  frightens, 

No  sight,  only  darkness  and  the  sound  of  wind. 


While  the  body,  stiffly  still, 

Trying,  trying, 

The  anxious  mind, 

Thinking,  thinking, 

Contradicts, 

Turning,  turning, 

Over  and  over, 

To  and  fro, 

Never  ending, 

Fighting  the  impossible. 

The  only  sound,  the  dreadful  wind  crawling  through 

the  trees 
Like  unseen  gliding  ghosts  with  singing  streaming 

hair, 

Whispering,  writhing, 
Hinting,  haunting, 
In  and  out  among  the  leaves, 
Now  soft,  now  strong, 
Now  low,  now  loud, 

20 


Fiercely  shrieking,  dying  down, 

Then  softly  slipping  off  the  edges  of  the  leaves, 

The  wind  slides  into  the  dark; 

Even  the  wild  wind  swallowed  at  last 

By  the  dreadful,  impenetrable,  everlasting  dark. 


21 


A  MAGICIAN 

With  tubes  of  paint, 

Or  empty  words, 

He  speaks  unspoken  things; 

The  flight  of  birds; 

How  stars  at  daybreak  faint; 

A  woman's  eyes; 

A  child's  caress; 

Or  how  love  surely  makes 

A  wilderness 

Seem  like  a  glad  surprise. 


22 


A  BRANCH 

At  daybreak 

The  maple  leaves  are  like  stars, 

Waving  stars, 

Fluttering  stars, 

Awakening  with  a  sigh. 

At  midday 

The  maple  leaves  are  like  stars, 

Hosts  of  stars, 

Glorious  stars, 

Against  the  azure  sky. 

At  sundown 

The  maple  leaves  are  like  stars, 

Service  stars, 

Gold  on  the  dusk, 

Emblems  of  those  who  die. 


SECOND  BATTLE  OF  THE  MARNE 


By  the  banks  of  the  Marne, 
Under  the  ragged  flags, 
In  the  green  graves, 
The  dead  slept. 

Again  was  heard  the  sound  of  war, 
Clarions,  clarions,  clarions, 
Calling,  calling,  calling, 
And  the  rolling  drums. 
The  dead  stirred. 
And  now  the  noise  of  guns, 
Roaring,  rending,  breaking, 
Coming  ever  nearer, 
Again  the  German  guns. 
The  dead  stirred. 
Then  from  the  clarions 
Sudden  the  piercing  cry, 
"Aux  armes,  citoyens!" 
The  dead  uprose. 

The  spirits  and  souls  of  the  soldier  dead; 
From  the  little  lonely  graves, 
From  the  great  crowded  graves, 
The  gallant  ghosts  arose, 
Free,  clear,  serenely  gay, 
The  spirits  rose  and  fought  again  for  France. 
In  the  air, 
Through  the  ranks, 
With  the  guns, 
Everywhere, 

Invisible,  intangible,  impalpable,  indestructible. 
24 


Under  the  flag  they  had  died  to  save, 

Defending  friends  and  brothers, 

Helping,  guarding,  quickening 

The  men  of  the  New  World; 

And  when  victory  was  won, 

Once  more  in  their  quiet  graves,  the  dead  slept. 


;LES  FLEURS  DU  MAL 


From  the  battlefield, 

From  the  ground  uptorn,  overturned, 

Blasted,  ruined,  defiled, 

Grow  flowers; 

Strange  flowers, 

Flowers  hitherto  unseen, 

Flowers  never  known  before, 

Flowers  dreadful,  unearthly. 


In  the  deep  shell  holes, 
Among  the  unexploded  bombs, 
Twisting  about  the  broken  wire, 
From  beneath  the  half-buried  corpses, 
Creep  flowers; 
Flowers  of  horror, 
Some  noxious,  spotted  grey, 
With  dripping,  loathsome  lips; 
Some  a  cruel,  dusty  red, 
With  bloated,  purple  veins; 
Some  thin,  slimy  black 
Rank  with  the  odour  of  the  lost; 
Ghastly  flowers, 
Flowers  of  hell, 

Fit  only  for  nosegays  for  the  damned, 
Flowers  that  frighten  one  to  see. 
But  beyond, 
For  Beauty  never  dies, 
Bloom  masses  of  blue, 
26 


Blue  incredible,  unbelievable, 

Sweet,  unutterably  sweet, 

Star  shaped, 

With  the  piercing  blueness 

That  grows  only  from  the  heart  of  love. 


A  JULY  NIGHT 

Darkness, 

Quietness, 

And  the  smell  of  heavy  summer. 

The  hillside  slipping  away  into  the  dark; 

No  beginning,  no  ending, 

Only  darkness; 

Enfolding, 

Calming, 

Protecting 

The  slow  breathing,  sleeping  earth. 

A  great  tree,  a  mass  of  vague,  quivering  darkness, 

Lifts  itself  into  the  silent  air. 

Above  and  all  around,  the  wide  sky, 

Dark  with  a  blueness  that  is  like  a  cry  to  the  heart. 

Far  down,  a  large  glowing  star, 

All  about  the  enormous  dome,  brilliant  stars, 

While  soaring  up  across  the  arch  of  the  curving  blue, 

The  pale  fluorescence, 

The  infinite  wonder, 

Called  the  Milky  Way. 


28 


FIFES 

Fifes! 

The  war  note  of  the  tramping  infantry. 

High,  high,  high, 

Above  the  rolling  reverberating  drums 

The  melody  sings  clear, 

Clear  as  the  song  of  the  brilliant  birds  of  war. 

Shrilling  the  fifes, 

With  the  powerful  rhythm  of  the  marching  feet; 

Thrilling  the  fifes, 

As  the  sound  of  swift  maddened  bayonets; 

Whirling  the  fifes, 

As  the  scream  of  infuriated  steel. 

High,  high,  high, 

Stabbing  the  ears, 

Drilling  into  the  peaceful  world, 

The  wild  call  to  fight. 


29 


LA  ARGENTINA 

The  guitars  begin, 

The  syncopated  Spanish  rhythm, 

The  curtain  parts, 

With  whirring  of  the  castanets, 

She  comes, 

La  Argentina. 

Moving  slowly 

To  the  music, 

With  the  music, 

In  the  music. 

With  the  rolling  castanets, 

Waving,  swaying, 

The  music  visible, 

Running  through  her  form. 

With  the  rising  and  the  rattling  of  the  castanets, 

She  moves, 

Faster, 

Fiercer, 

Lifting  into  power, 

Until  passion  and  beauty  and  the  force  of  life  are 

manifest. 

Then  crash;    the  castanets! 
She  stops,  still. 
Silence — 

She  slowly  smiles. 
For  with  her  art 
She  has  torn  the  world  asunder, 
And  they  see; 

30 


She  has  ripped  the  shell  of  commonplace, 

And  they  know. 

Silence — 

Till  the  everyday  creeps  back  again 

With  thunders  of  applause. 


GUNS 

In  the  soft  autumn  sunshine, 

By  the  trees  of  the  little  park, 

Stand  the  captured  guns; 

Prussian  guns; 

Long,  thin  and  brown, 

The  crown  and  pride  of  Prussia 

Upon  them  deeply  cut. 

At  last  they  are  ours, 

At  last  they  are  here. 

For  evil  days  they  had  murdered, 

For  frightful  months  they  had  ruined, 

For  dread  years  they  had  destroyed; 

And  we  believed  not. 

For  a  long  time  they  had  roared  at  us. 

For  a  great  while  they  had  jeered  at  us, 

For  many  years  they  had  reviled  us; 

And  we  stirred  not. 

But  at  last  the  strength  of  the  people 

Broke  through  their  leaders7  bonds, 

And  we  made  war, 

Red,  fierce,  avenging  war; 

And  we  fought  and  took  the  guns, 

Tore  them  from  the  beasts  that  served  them, 

And  brought  them  back. 

Now  here  they  stand 

In  the  little  park, 

Forever  for  a  sign  that  in  this  people 

There  is  still  a  passion  for  the  right. 


GIVE  ME  ONCE  MORE 

Give  me  once  more  the  torn-up  trampled  years, 
Let  me  fly  forward  to  the  past. 
Give  me  the  time  when  I  throbbed  with  bitter  joy, 
The  days  when  youth  made  triumph  out  of  pain, 
The  nights  when  from  the  trembling  sky  I  tore  the 

very  stars; 

Give  them  to  me;    give  back  my  broken  stars. 
Dull  are  the  perfect  jewels  of  to-day, 
Give  back  my  shattered  stars  of  long  ago. 


33 


A  SHADOW 

When  the  leaves  fall,  gently,  quietly,  relentlessly, 
And  on  an  autumn  morning  you  watch  the  shadow 

of  a  branch, 
Made  by  the  low-angled  sun,  upon  a  whitewashed 

wall, 

Watch  the  blue  shadow  steal  softly  down  the  glow 
ing  white, 

You  think,  "How  swiftly  turns  the  world  to-day, 
How  soon  it  all  will  pass,  and  we  like  shadows  will 
also  disappear." 


NOVEMBER  THE  ELEVENTH 

Victory,  flowers,  glory  eternal, 

Cheers,  rejoicing,  peace  enflamed, 
Think  of  the  ones  to  whom  we  owe  it, 

Think  of  the  maimed. 

With  the  sky  all  blue,  and  the  sun  all  golden, 

Voices  roaring  like  sound  of  wind, 
Think  of  the  men  who  must  live  in  darkness, 

Think  of  the  blind. 

Flags  and  banners,  tossing  triumphant, 

Streets  streaming  with  colour,  blue,  white  and  red, 

Think  of  those  who  gave  this  to  us, 
Think  of  the  dead. 


35 


THE   PROCESSION  OF  THE  DEAD 

"Unter  den  Linden,"  and  the  tramp  of  noiseless 

ghosts, 

The  parade  of  the  army  of  the  dead, 
Music,  music  like  the  sighing  of  the  frightened  air, 
Under    the    quivering   trees    in    the   empty,    silent 

street, 

Comes  the  long  procession. 
Ghosts,  ranks  of  ghosts, 
Divisions,  armies, 

Impalpable,  intangible,  transparent; 
Soldiers,  soldiers,  soldiers, 
Men  who  died  in  battle; 
Old  men  and  hostages 
The  murdered  ones; 
Women  and  lovely  girls, 
With  scars  around  their  outraged  breasts; 
Children,  little  children, 
With  red  wounded  wrists; 
Martyrs,  crucified  ones, 
Nurses,  doctors, 
Killed  at  their  gentle  work; 
Edith  Cavell, 
Pale,  white,  translucent. 
Then  the  drowned  ones, 
From  the  great  dead  ships, 
Lusitania,  Suffolk,  Leinster; 
Sailors,  sailors,  sailors, 
Fighting  men, 
Merchantmen, 
Fisher  men, 

36 


Shot,  drowned,  betrayed. 

Captain  Fryatt, 

Calm  and  steadfast  as  when  on  earth. 

Thousands,  thousands, 

All  nations,  all  peoples, 

Marching, 

Under  the  floating  flags, 

Back  from  the  other  world, 

Ghosts,  spectres,  spirits; 

A  long,  long  procession; 

The  parade  of  the  men  who  won, 

The  parade  of  the  women  who  gave, 

The  parade  of  the  noble,  glorious  dead 

Who  gave  their  lives  for  right,  for  hope,  for  love; 

Proud  they  are, 

Proud  and  understanding; 

Now  comprehending  all  mysteries,  all  suffering, 

Now  knowing  their  victory  is  achieved, 

Now  sure  they  did  not  die  in  vain, 

Now  certain  that  the  living  kept  the  faith, 

Sure  of  the  living, 

Glad  of  the  sacrifice. 

Ghosts,  ghosts,  ghosts, 

Conquering,  triumphant,  victorious, 

Tramping,  silently,  noiselessly, 

"Unter  den  Linden." 


37 


THE  RETURN 

When  I  returned, 

And  coming  up  the  stair, 

It  all  was  changed, 

The  very  air  breathed  joy, 

The  place  seemed  filled  with  light, 

I  felt  the  uplifting  of  the  buoyant  world, 

And  all  was  peace. 

Then  I  knew  that  she  was  surely  there, 

That  in  the  room  above  she  would  be  waiting. 


ADVICE 

Speak  calmly, 

Never  say 

The  stars  are  made  of  molten  gold, 

And  if  you  reach  you  hold  them  in  your  hand 

Do  not  think 

That  the  sky  is  liquid  sapphire, 

And  if  you  dream  you  spread  it  o'er  your  soul 

Never  say 

The  sea  sounds  like  the  orchestra  of  God, 

And  if  you  care  you  hear  it  in  your  heart. 

Speak  gently, 

Say  that  life  is  sweet, 

Never  tell  them 

Life  is  the  bitter,  splendid  thing  it  is, 

A  thing  of  suffering  and  heart-rending  joy: 

Speak  softly, 

Pretend  that  love  is  a  pleasant  thing: 

Never  dare  to  say 

Love  is  a  driving  scourge, 

A  blinding  beauty, 

A  flame  from  which  there  is  no  escape: 

Say  to  them 

That  death  is  merciful  and  comes  to  all  alike: 

Never  even  whisper 

That  death  swings  through  the  world, 

Dealing  grief  and  horror  and  oblivion: 

Speak  smoothly, 

And  you  will  be  admired. 


39 


BACK 

Back  again  in  the  village  store, 

In  civilian  clothes  now  dressed, 

Gold  stripes  for  service  and  for  wounds, 

Ribbons  upon  his  gallant  breast. 

His  sharp,  grey  eyes  seem  to  survey 

The  serried  ranks  of  armed  men, 

You  almost  hear  the  quick  command, 

"Fix  bayonets,  charge,  and  charge  again!" 

Instead  he  makes  some  jokes 

While  telling  the  price  of  beans 

Or  quoting  the  cost  of  eggs; 

One  for  a  moment  chokes, 

As  if  one  saw  a  lion  in  a  cage, 

And  then  one  slowly  understands, 

He  is  the  same  brave,  steadfast  man 

Who  stood  the  test  and  broke  the  German  rage. 


A.O 


A  PLAYTHING 

When  one  has  died 

Whom  you  have  honoured,  loved; 

While  even  in  your  grief 

You  slowly  count 

His  honours,  his  accomplishments, 

What  things  he  made, 

What  he  had  done, 

How  lived,  how  played  his  part, 

You  find,  perhaps,  upon  his  desk, 

Some  little  thing,  some  silly  toy, 

That  almost  breaks  your  heart. 


-IT 


THE  ADAMS  MEMORIAL 

ROCK   CREEK   CEMETERY 

Enwrapped  in  heavy  folds, 

It  sits  impenetrable, 

Brooding, 

Pondering  the  eternal  mystery 

That  now  we  know  as  life, 

And  soon  shall  know  as  death. 

Close  to  the  path, 

Beyond  the  gaunt,  bare,  lifting  trees, 

Appears  the  first  blossom 

Of  the  sure  returning  spring; 

While  in  the  dusk  floats  the  double  moon, 

The  new  moon  holding  in  the  bright,  upcurving  arms 

The  transparent   perfect   circle  of  the   dead,   still 

sphere; 

And  above  through  the  onmarching  dark 
The  shining  of  the  everliving  stars. 


42 


THE   POILU  AND  THE   POLITICIAN 

Bitter  pain,  heavy  labour, 

Wounds  and  suffering, 

Toilsome  days, 

Years  spent  face  to  face  with  aweful  death. 

At  the  end 

He  carries  home  his  share 

Of  the  thanks  the  regiment  received 

In  General  Order,  number  ten. 

The  other  visits  camps, 

Exhorts  men  to  keep  clean  their  souls, 

Wears  at  times  the  gallant  uniform, 

Appears  on  platforms, 

And,  standing  amid  palms  and  banked  flowers, 

Speaks  of  liberty  and  sacrifice. 

For  him,  with  formal  pomp, 

The  grand  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


43 


'LES   BARRICADES  MYSTfiRIEUSES" 

The  houses  heavy,  menacing, 

Black,  overtopping,  crushing, 

The  street  straight, 

Leading  out  to  the  clear  world  beyond, 

The  houses  narrowing,  threatening, 

Oppressing,  dulling,  obliterating. 

I  will  flee  away, 

Away  from  the  pressure  and  the  pain 

Of  the  dark  and  dreadful  city. 

Other  people  ahead 

Pass  up  the  street,  out  and  away. 

I,  too,  will  depart. 

I  move  swiftly, 

The  houses  reaching  to  crush  me> 

The  city  trying  to  hold  me. 

The  world  is  beyond, 

Light,  open,  marvelous. 

So  I  run, 

Swiftly,  swiftly  up  the  street. 

Suddenly  I  am  stopped, 

Across  the  straight  street 

Is  stretched  a  barricade, 

High,  mysterious,  impassable, 

I  try  to  pass. 

I  cannot. 

I  must  return. 

I  seek,  I  find  another  street, 

I  run  up  it  toward  the  light, 

But  again  across  the  vacant  street 

Stretches  a  ghostly  barricade. 

44 


Street  after  street  I  try, 

And  each  one  closes  relentlessly,  horribly, 

The  barricades  rising, 

Grewsome,  ghastly,  incredible. 

I  try  to  climb, 

To  tear  down  the  hateful  piles, 

To  break  out,  to  escape. 

I  cannot. 

I  fall  back  with  bloody  hands, 

Cut  on  the  jagged  stones, 

Torn  by  the  cruel  nails, 

The  barricades, 

Mysterious,  inscrutable, 

Of  strength  overwhelming, 

Stop  me; 

Pressing  me  back, 

Holding  me  in, 

Forcing  me  to  remain, 

Preventing  me  from  reaching  out, 

Keeping  me  from  going  forth, 

To  the  wonderful  open  land, 

To  the  land  beyond, 

Where  blows  the  wide  wind, 

Where  shines  forever  the  dazzling  sun. 


45 


NARCISSUS  ON  THE  TABLE 

Rising  from  the  round  grey  dish, 

The  straight  green  stalks 

And  leaves  like  little  sharp  swords, 

Springing  to  defend  the  crown  of  yellow  blossoms, 

Blooming  out, 

Sweet  and  gay, 

Like  the  cries  of  joyous  soaring  birds. 


AGAIN 

The  little  plants  are  pushing,  pushing, 

The  little  leaves  are  reaching,  reaching, 

Striving  toward  the  sun; 

For  the  sap  behind  that  is  all  unseen 

Is  urging,  urging, 

Moving  them  on; 

Till  the  earth  again  is  green, 

A  delicate  green, 

A  shimmering  green, 

Like  sunlit  sheen; 

And  the  leaves  come  out, 

While  round  about 

Is  the  song  of  blithesome  birds. 

And  the  wind  is  soft, 

And  the  sun  is  bright, 

And  life  is  full, 

Full  once  again 

Of  the  old  delight, 

The  wonder  and  the  marvel, 

The  world  turning  toward  the  light. 

The  flowers  are  gay, 

We,  too,  must  play, 

For  it  is  spring,  spring, 

So  let  us  bring 

Our  newest  and  our  best, 

And  shout  and  sing, 

And  leap  and  dance, 

For  it  is  meet 

That  we  our  presents  bring 

And  lay  them  at  God's  feet. 


LIFE 

Turn  "Number  Six," 

The  house  is  dark, 

Save  that  at  the  wings 

Glistens  a  round  of  shining  light; 

Into  this  light 

Quietly  glides  a  figure, 

Gay,  rose  coloured, 

Dancing,  stepping,  sliding, 

Floating  in  a  foam  of  waving  white; 

Brightly  moving  to  the  rhythm 

Of  the  soft  playing  band; 

The  centre  of  the  stage  is  reached, 

Held  for  a  single  space 

Of  pulsing,  quivering  victory; 

A  smile,  a  bow, 

Then,  suddenly  again, 

Darkness. 


LARKSPUR 

Clear  as  the  song  of  the  bird  that  gives  it  its  name 
the  larkspur  blooms. 

Wonderful  is  the  blue  of  the  sea,  in  flood  about 
yellow  rocks; 

Delicate  are  thin  shadows,  on  the  exquisite  white 
ness  of  snow; 

Moving  are  far  blue  hills,  floating  beyond  a  valley 
of  gold; 

Marvelous  above  dark  and  pointed  trees,  the  high 
Italian  sky; 

Poignant  the  quivering  twilight,  behind  the  blazing 
city  lights; 

But  the  blue  of  a  deep  flower, 

Lit  by  the  newly  rested  sun, 

Or  the  pale  azure  of  a  blossom 

At  dusk  of  a  summer's  day 

Seem  the  most  beautiful  of  all. 


49 


NO.  721.    DEPARTMENT  OF  GOTHIC  ART 

Once  I  stood, 

Uplifted,  enshrined, 

While  the  people  prayed, 

"Ave  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis." 

Vivid  candle  flames 

Pierced  the  darkened  coloured  air, 

Incense  rose  in  pale  spirals  about  my  haloed  head, 

And  the  priests  intoned, 

"Salve  Regina,  mater  misericordia." 

Then  was  my  robe  bright  with  colour, 

Heavy  gems  were  in  the  broidered  stone; 

Then  the  people  cried, 

"O  dulcis  Virgo  Maria." 

Worshipping  through  me  the  Blessed  Virgin, 

I  was  carved  to  represent. 

Carved  was  I 

By  hands  skilled, 

By  heart  moved, 

By  head  bowed 

In  understanding  and  worship, 

The  feeling  for  God  and  beauty 

Throbbing  into  the  reluctant  stone, 

Until  I  shone  forth 

Instinct  with  art  and  life, 

Dedicated  to  the  glory  and  wonder  of  the  Mother 

of  Almighty  God, 
"Gaude  Virgo  Gloriosa, 
Ave  Maria,  Avel    Ave!" 
But  now,  in  a  corner  of  a  bare  museum  must  I 

remain, 

50 


The  colour  from  my  surging  vestments  washed 

By  Puritans,  jealous  of  this  gay  and  gladsome  world; 

I  stand,  stared  at,  appraised, 

A  visitor  may  say  "the  line  is  good, 

It  is  of  a  period  when  fineness  ruled." 

Coldness,  blindness,  nothingness, 

Indeed  I  am  alone. 

Only  now  and  then  comes  one  who  loves, 

Loves  through  his  eyes, 

All  art,  all  beauty 

Of  earth,  of  works  of  man,  of  God, 

Perceiving,  and  receiving, 

The  essential,  the  significant, 

And  he  shakes  before  me,  as  a  tree  blown   upon 

by  summer  air, 
Understanding   the   oneness   of  the   heart   of  man 

with  God; 

And  I  hear  again,  as  if  sung  by  distant  angels, 
"Salve  Regina, 
Gaude  Virgo  Gloriosa." 


THE  77TH  DIVISION 

Bayonets! 

The  fierce  foam  on  the  stream  that  fills  Fifth  Avenue. 

White! 

Glittering  above  the  waves  of  sweeping  brown. 

Flags! 

Waving,  flying,  glorious,  over  the  red  tanned  faces. 

Bands! 

Roaring  ragtime  with  the  rattling  happy  drums. 

Flowers! 

Thrown  to  the  troops  by  the  waiting  women  who 

love  them. 
Boys! 

Our  own  boys,  back  again,  victors,  conquerors. 
Manhattan! 

Her  own  sons,  who  worked  for  her,  fought  for  her. 
Visions! 

Of  the  dead  who  stayed  for  us  in  France. 
Bayonets!     Bayonets! 
Gleaming  above  the  rhythmic  mass, 
As  the  Liberty  Division  streams  in  glory,  home. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO—  ^      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  d 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


FORM  NO.  DD6, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BEI 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


^ 


0041 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


6000^733 


